The Long Journey Home
by epicnovelist
Summary: Landon knew his heart bent homeward. Though what he left behind was lost, still Annabelle remained. There was another love aspiring to capture his heart, and thru time he was torn between what was before him, and what still kindled his memories for the past. This is story of a young man fighting desperately to rediscover his past, and to recover the love he once knew.
1. Journey Chapter 1 Episode 1

_**Chapter 1**_

**Upon The Shores Of A New Beginning.**

**Episode 1 – Memories of Home**

I am now a man. I feel the part and I have no other viable opinion to tell me otherwise. I have long ventured to achieve such a goal, and the manner by which this very achievement was accomplished could be correctly considered extraordinary in its own right. The occurrence could be construed as of the gradual nature but I feel, to my heart of hearts, the changeover was as radical as the foundation by which it was created.

You may ask; how am I now? No different; the body larger and more conformed; the brain more to the intellectual and deeper within thought than before. But I ask you, how does a boy become a man? Truly; how does he? Does he awaken one morning and discover his 'child skin' shed and the larger shadow of himself now born into his body. I can't say. Nor can I speak to the profound verse on life that has brought me here; either willing or unwillingly, to this very place called Rochester.

If you were to ask those most endeared to me about the man I have become, most may very well tell you about a most uninspired, and perhaps incorrect perception of me. I can become more locked away than many would presume, even unto my own family. They measure my privacy well, keep honor to it, and only politely engage me when I have the steady attention to converse with them. Now mind you, I am not as so enclosed as you, yourself, might insinuate here. There are just fields of imagination upon which I would more readily play upon than continually open myself up to any and every soul that would attempt to encounter me.

I am solitary, introverted, enclosed; a harbor to my own soul; like a man drifting through the seas of a deserted island; my island; Sebastian's island.

So this is where it takes me: the loft of my past; of grandmother; of U-no-le; of Annabelle; of home. I can regularly dispose of the current world and recreate the vintage world of my days back in North Carolina. The lands where hills turn into mountains; valleys turn into shores of greenery and space, and I can still see my heart residing there.

My name is Landon Hampshire. If the first volume of this story should escape your reading, then this is the very person who shall guide you through. I shall not belabor the 'retelling' of the previous tale, but hope that some passage of ancient storytelling had given you at least the vital details to it. Ask the natives to that land. They will tell you; who I was as a child. Now, I shall tell you the man I have become.

I can be found on the shores of Rochester; riding up and down the embankments, atop Boone; his brilliant white and speckled mane fanning me as we went. The seas to these lake-fronts and miniature oceans were as restless as I; their waters spoke as much with the very lapping of their waves and ripples along the north and south shorelines.

I have come to detest these winters here; the long and arduous manner with which they freeze me into an embalmed state, and for nearly seven months out of the year. The grassless grounds, charred brown and unliving, hardly reappear until well into the new-year. The springs are short and tranquil; the summers hold out briefly with a tinge of heat, yet not long enough to unthaw me from the previous winter's most bitter icing. It is all too soon when the leaves turn brown, cascade down, and start the winter snows all over again.

So the window for my trips abroad is always a short one. I take great advantage on the balmy days of spring, and so now I take you there, upon a certain day in the late spring of 1893. There was a particular shade tree Boone and I found to be our favorite. The shores about were vast and they allowed for a long, panoramic view that, sitting upon the height of it, you could sense yourself almost aboard the edge of a cliff.

This was our place; a little slice of home; a place where we could look out and almost see the shadow of North Carolina in the backdrop. I would close my eyes and feel the whisper of a faint wind tickle to my ear, call me back, and allow me to see the place I could only adore in my memory now. I thanked the wind when it went by, and asked it, with my expression, if it would return again soon.

I thought of Shelly's enormous oak tree sitting at the edge of her property; those long limbs stretching out over the lake waters; the pillared sky reflecting back in the lake bed's plain. This tree; how it would entreat her, give her sanctity and refuge all her own; cuddle her and warm the edges of her heart when she read all the famous master writers and their stories. And to her diary; that antiquity to the heart, the place where, even unto this day, she can go and revisit the very world she had come from.

I would look up above me when the tree shivered by the wind, and feel the sense of her longing too. Boone often lay beside me; and at other times he would allow me to lie over his neck while I read. I found myself lost in these stories; these grand adventures to the mind, and seeing the images which played through my thoughts like a long, continual motion of events; of places; of times; of lands where only the mind could wander to.

I could breathe every word in and feel my place was there; looking, eyeing the lands where these writers first ventured to. On occasion, the wind would kick up and throw my book in disarray; flipping a dozen pages or more instantly, as if the wind was attempting to rush me through the story. Boone would rustle about, bob his head, grunt and sigh, reposition himself, and settle back down virtually into the same spot as before.

My travels were multiple. Sometimes I would roam about Genesee River not far from our home in Glen Haven. At other times Boone and I would roam the shores of Irondequoit Bay, near to Sea Breeze, and back along the long shores of Lake Ontario and Oklahoma Beach. I felt as to be a ghost not yet born; trying to find the hauntings and travels that my wandering and looming spirit would go upon when I was gone.

I had become an immeasurable man. Lost, undefined to anyone but myself. There is a place in the mind where you can be captured, and left there with nothing but your thoughts. This was to be a place where I would find myself often.

I still carried the miniature Annabelle had given me seven years before. During my times alone I would retrieve it from underneath my vest and shirt. The interlockings were like the cover to a deep and mysterious treasure. And when I would unfasten it, her face, most frozen in time and youth, would come staring back at me. Those locks of golden hew; of starlight blue eyes and unflinching beauty drew me so quickly back to the times we shared together. This only increased my longing; to find a manner and method by which I could return.

The promises of the past were never realized. I was to return in the following spring; and to the patterns of my own grandmother's life, I too, followed into her footsteps. I never returned. It was not by lack of desire or the purist intent, but of will and greater hope than what reality would afford me.

Father had often spoken of the days when we would take time to visit once more; continually, at dinner times, and when we held moments together and reflect while sitting within the fire room.

My sisters and I found ourselves taking to attend to the fireplace while we watched over him; his eyes melting back within himself as though he were more readied to converse with himself than with us. The shadows of those long flames crisscrossed his face and expression, though they never revealed the most inner thoughts he could never share with us.

"We need to go see your grandmother," he would blurt out in the silent air, "Yes, we do…"

"When?" I would always return to ask.

"Soon," he said; more with an apology than with excuse.

And now, sitting, looking back to the miniature of the one I held hopes, joys, and tears for, I could hear her last words echo back from the recordings of my memory; a wisp of air; a shadow of sound drawing near to awaken my heart once more.

"I will miss you Landon," the echo started with a soft voice, "These mountains will be empty without you here…"

I felt locked in my own transgressions. It is true. I had failed Annabelle. I wondered if I knew truly what love was. All the times from that very moment till now; those long years of nothing; simply nothing; I had lost the measure of what I thought a true man was and should be.

Her beauty was as frozen in time as I felt my heart had become. Nothing had changed, but only to my own inability to act upon what I knew I should do. My religion was never to live my life with regret. Or at least, be consumed by it. Now, sitting upon my favorite shores, and underneath the tree that made me feel closest to home, I could sense the sharpest edge of Regret piercing directly through me.

I often wondered what Annabelle was doing at any one time. I would close my eyes and say a prayer. Not to Heaven, but one that would travel the bounds of earth in hopes it would find her so that we could finally converse once more. The thoughts of my grandmother's diary were playing back to me again and again. The verses; so parched with pen and passage of time, held as much of a voice with me now as it did then. The teachings were not of simply words, yet of life experiences and the ire of what true mistakes can bring.


	2. Journey Chapter 1 Episode 2

**Episode 2 – I Am Late**

I was now twenty, and I knew all too well the guilt of what regret brings without the hope of knowing what the curable remedy was. So I was lost; I swimming in the seas of what had been so long ago in my life. The sands and seas of Lake Ontario held less water than the inner tears of my own heart. I knew this.

I fear my dreams were nothing more now than the life I had already lived; nothing more; no new dreams to play over; where hope rises and shows me the joys of a new life.

Boone would tug at my shirt collar and bring me back again. And so I would pat to his head and smile.

"You've been a good friend to me Boone," I whispered into his large, overhanging left ear, "You have the greater honor between us… Loyalty… Loyalty…"

I closed the chapter to my book, sighed, and I shifted my sights over the long-reaching horizon.

"Landon!" a voice rumbled from the rear. A rider was approaching in full speed, "Landon!"

I turned to see a former classmate, in high-tail and hooves, kicking about the dry parched earth up into a dirty cloud of brown smoke.

It was Luther Bowman.

"What's got you spat up like a storm Luther?" I gleamed up at him as I pinched my eyes into a squint when he rode about me.

"You're late!" was his ardent response.

"Just been here all morning…"

"Drifting time away," he swore, "As usual."

"Leave my time well enough alone, will ya?"

"You're late!" He repeated.

"For what?" I laughed at him, "Something's got you in a stir."

"You're as forgetful as sin on any Sunday..."

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"It's nearly two Landon," he smarted, "two o'clock?"

"And?" I jerked; lifting myself to a kneel, "I know time well enough thank you..."

"The Harvester Festival..." he hinted, "The race; once a year. The one everyone wants to win… Today is the second of two qualifying races… Did you forget?"

"Today?" I questioned, "Was it today? I thought it was on Thursday, this coming Thursday."

"Nooo..." he growled, "Harper told you last week. Its Monday; registry at noon; horse prep at one; the race is to be at two o'clock." Luther was nearly in hyperventilation when he spoke this.

"You're joking... Aren't you…"

"Nooo... Next year, Boone will be too old to register in the race… It's what you've been working him all this time for."

"I know," I stammered; attempting to get all my things from a clutter and into a sack, which I quickly flung over Boone's shoulder, "I know…"

"I took the privilege of putting you down on the registry," he spoke out, "At least you don't have to worry about that."

"You're a good fellow," I gave him a pat to his knee, "Whereabouts' the time now?"

He sent me a smart, terse stare before answering.

"I thought you were well with time?"

"So?" I climbed aboard Boone, "I left my pocket watch at the house. No need to carry it if I knew I would be out here the full day."

I swung myself out over Boone, climbed aboard, and I was more than ready to saddle off.

"Quarter till two."

"Quarter till two?" I exclaimed, "Geez Luther. You waited till the last minute to find me... Didn't you? I'll nearly have to run Boone out even before I get there. He won't be much to the good for racing, now will he?"

"I looked everywhere for you Landon," he defended, "Home; rail yard; outpost; school; Locklear. You're a hard man to find."

"This is the most obvious place… You can find me here nearly anytime when the weather is good for the day," I stalled as I circled about him, horse-to-horse, "Brianne will be there?"

"I suppose..." he said; pushing his head down to his chin, "You know she fancies you… more than she should."

"I know," I turned to ride off, though I stalled to spin back on Luther one final time, "And Shadowland?"

"Branson will have him ready," he returned, "rest assured… You'll have the devil on your backside at the end of the race."

Boone and I were near to three miles from the start gate of this race. I knew the supervisor would not wait a moment past poll time for the race to begin, so my travels would need to be swift. It was not to my regular liking to push Boone so fiercely. And then turn around in only a matter of minutes to have him under full speed, under duress, and quartering out another two miles.

I felt Boone gather quick to his speed, tear the earth from its roots beneath us, thunder beyond anything in front of us as though he were in a torrid rage. His mane was flopping wildly around my hands; his tail pinpointing in a straight line behind us, and I leaned in on him to gather even more speed. We cut through the open range; that dry earth cut blocks of dust in our way.

All these years, Boone and I were as one when we went to full speed like we were there. Time had taken a gallop or two from his pace. But he still held the envy of all riders within the county. His size, power, and speed were unmatched; being that he was a daring force to be reckoned with.

I had never taken a whip to Boone's backside. He refuted this; even to this day there was no greater manner to encourage him with than for me to be atop whenever he raced. I had raced him on a few mulch tracks over the years; even a couple 'wager' runs within the flat valleys when someone held the bravado to challenge us. To date, Boone had never come in second.

We stirred to the top of the hill where the race was to begin. The combatants below, along with the mass of family members, were settling near on the start line. Along these parts, this was considered the grand 'flag' race; perhaps even more esteemed than the finale 'Harvester' Race that would decide the grand winner for that year. To come across the finish line, holding about the American flag and hearing all those cheering you, was a cherishable moment to be anticipated. It was something I had most readily dreamed of for the past year or more when I had first encountered this race from the previous spring.


	3. Journey Chapter 1 Episode 3

**Episode 3 – Just Before The Race**

I had never raced Boone in such a category event as this. It was a race where glory and high esteem followed, and one where you could ride through the streets of Rochester and be so admired the whole next year round. My influences were not driven so much for recognition, but for Boone himself to be recognized for the great steed he was.

"Gather round!" I heard the starter call out, "Gather round! The race is about ready to commence."

A solid roar went up from the heirs of this ever-increasing crowd; some five hundred or more had now assembled. I moved Boone quickly down the embankment, down one far slope, and onto the flats just behind the crowd.

There was still a quiet thunder in his step; a rumble when he pushed forward. You could see the crowd turn, their smiles washed out into a stoic expression as we neared. I saw fear, curiosity, and even dread written along this sea of faces as we moved to cut through them. My speculation was that not a one of them had ever viewed a gallantry horse such as this before. Boone's horrific size caused many to shudder, grow weakly quiet, and stutter into a muddle of whispers.

There were ten horses in all; nine by my account, until I had reached the starting line. At the other end was my main competitor; Branson aboard Shadowland. His horse was a sleek thoroughbred, with sprinting lines like a cheetah, and only half-a-hand shorter than Boone; that solid black coat, high mane, and wrapping tail all shined with reflection in the open sun. The horse had a swagger about it; caustic and cocky, like it were pruned from an elite bloodline; almost as much born with ego as Branson had been.

"Hey half-wit!" Branson yelled through his grungy smirk, "You made it… Didn't figure you would want the embarrassment…"

"Don't listen to him," a voice below me called up.

It was Brianne.

I looked over and I saw her dark streaming locks wave about in the slow, meandering wind. She always held a perpetual smile about her; glowing the articulate nature to her spirit whenever it appeared. Those deep raven eyes nearly melted her look back on you when she came to a stare; hypnotic, strong, and brazen with a gentle sway.

"Here, for luck…"

She pulled from around her neck a ringlet of charms and stones her mother had made for her when she was a child.

"More of fortune," I smiled and winked, "than of luck…"

"Take as you like," she batted back on me, "But the wish for success is the same…"

"A wish to be admired," I whispered my return.

"Hey half-wit!" Branson called out again, "Halfwit!"

"I can be called by another name..."

"If you win this race?" he chuckled slyly, "I'll call you by another name..."

His fellow rider friends snickered on this.

"Somehow," I called back, "I don't feel it wouldn't be the more flattering..."

Boone sneered with a grunt.

A hand rubbed gently back across my right knee, "Be safe," Brianne spoke one last advisory.

"I will."

"Now gentleman!" the starter called us forward, "As you know the race encompasses two phases. A mile and a quarter out are ten flagpoles on the edge of the flats there," he pointed out beyond our view," Grab the specific flag designated for you; by color, and head back downwind a hundred yards onto the sand embankments. First one back with their flag in hand and toe will be designated the winner, and will have second right to position in the Harvester Race. First three from this squad will be able to compete three weeks from now."

A scuttle ensued till all the participants came relative to their spots; Branson and his Shadowland directly opposite of me, on the farther end.

"Landon," Randall, the rider most near, whispered out, "Take caution… Branson and his crones have plans to upend you. Watch your rear; watch your rear… They'll squeeze you and hit high on Boone." I looked hard into Randall's eyes, "I overheard them, five minutes before you came."

"Warn me," I responded, "if they get close."

"I'll do what I can," he pulled back the reins on his horse.

"Take to the grounds men," the caller asked us to come a-ground and face our horse; hands firmly gripped to saddle.

"Keep an eye open for me…" I requested again.

"Will do," I heard him muddle back.

"Do take your marks!"

The final shout filtered though our conversation.

The tease of the crowd; their roars and hollers for the race to begin grew from a simmer until the whole area echoed with their chants. The intensity was beginning to build; a prevailing hush to silence; a hand rises with pistol cocked and ready to explode. All drew stunned silent; waiting for the bandit ride for flag and honor to begin.


	4. Journey Chapter 1 Episode 4

**Episode 4 – The Harvester Race**

I drew my sights hard to the saddle; felt Boone's tail flash and brush against my side. He turned his strong head; one-eyed stare engaged with me. I smiled; he grunted and stomped the ground with his front hoof. The grip of my hands over his saddle tensed as my gloves rubbed leather to leather.

"Mark!" another cry, "Ready!"

We waited for that singular moment to fall. Where the mere sound of silence drags that moment on forever into what seemed to be an eternity. I felt the sweat drip from my chin as my teeth gripped into a clinch.

"Go!" I heard the shot of his gun and this word all ring out in one flash of sound and fury.

"Heaven's gate!" I cried out; being vaulted from my stance and into a leg swing over Boone's shoulder; me square now into saddle and seeing the sights of an empty landscape before me. Boone pushed forward instantly and without waiver; his head nearly flush and hitting onto the hard ground as we ascended from our post. That roar from the crowd rose and elevated more than ever.

So much so, I could not hear my own thoughts there.

We all released almost identical and we thundered out onto the open plains. Twenty heads in a furious bob and heave; the gallant ride forth; the earth tumbling beneath our ways when all the horses and men converged in what seemed to be a single strand and line forward. I looked underneath my arm and I could see only the heavy dirge of dust and cloudy smoke misting out the clan of that crowd behind us all.

Shadowland edged out first; his strides long and majestic with such a black glow and brilliant darkness. Boone followed pursuit and cornered out with him till we were side by side, slightly ahead of the remaining eight horses. Our gallops matched length-by-length; unwavering; unyielding to the other; Branson stiff to his expression and he seemed perturbed by our ability to keep pace. Those eyes of his fell behind his heavy brow; his chin grunting into a glutton frown; the wave of his hand; his persistent stare all wore on Boone and I as he guided Shadowland ever closer to us.

His push was wild and strong when he bore out a half-length lead, then a slight full length till that high-arching black tail brushed up against Boone's face; only to rile him out further.

Boone would most gladly accept the challenge.

"You can't catch a pure breed!" Branson yelled back, "Half-breed!" His chuckle burned my blood red.

"_A-ya A-na-s-gv-ti U-you-tsi-hi Ni-hi!_" I cried out in Cherokee, which took him into a bit of shock.

"Cut the crackle!" He howled back.

"_Na-quu!_" I spit in return, "_A-ya A-se-quu-i A-ni-gi-s-di-ni-dv-le-nv-da Ni-hi!_"

And with this Boone released his own yell, dug deep to the ground, lept forward, and flushed right past Shadowland and Branson who, in turn, watched our acceleration with awe as we passed them both by.

I felt Branson become more desperate; his two-henchman pulled near until the three riders came directly to our rear.

"Call them out Randall!" I cried back to my friend.

I saw him attempting to gain some relevant speed, riding to my right corner rear. His stallion labored, huffed, made a gasp to gather momentum, though one of Branson's riders quickly brushed Randall out of position.

"You're alone in this friend!" Branson bristled; his horse trying to nip on Boone's flopping tail, "Now! Stop us!"

In unison they rumbled ever more to my most immediate shadow. I flipped my sights back and forth and I tried to gauge their next move.

From the brunt of their saddles the two fellow riders retrieved one whip each; rising high by one hand while the other hand kept steady to the reins. The lashes caught quick and hard to Boone's backside.

He railed into a mighty grit-clench of his bit; his eyes stoned from the pain, and he sneered with all the more aggression in an attempt to pull us free. Still the lashes fell, one right after another.

And no matter Boone's attempt to outrun them, the force only worsened. I made an attempt to grab onto one, then the other.

I felt Boone push his massive frame even harder; his head lowering to the horizon, and all the while taking the full force of their blows. I reached back in another try to grab the whips as they fell downward; though only to find my attempts to yank them away nothing more than futile.

They pursued us nearly a quarter to the mile, nearly two-thirds the way to the flagpoles.

"Stop it!" I shouted in retreat, "Stop it!"

Still, the lashes fell ever harder.

I could see Boone beginning to foam around the edges of his gaping mouth; his head lower still. Those strong shoulders of Boone's were starting to yield; the pain too severe and sapping him from his strides.

In one final galactic rush, Boone anguished out with a yell and pulled us into a riled twist. We rolled into a near three-sixty spin that almost took me from his saddle. We found ourselves in a full stall. We both watched as the other participants passed us by and headed out to the distant flagpoles just ahead.

I heard the whoops and hollers of those three men drive a virtual spear through me. My hands held sturdy to the reins; eyes hot red to that glow, while Boone gnawed on his bit, and then suddenly pushed forward by his own will.

I felt the Boone of old there.

The steam heart of a champion came rushing through. His shoulders felt more like wings than of gallops; his hooves stronger than steel. And as we made pursuit upon that dusting-up-cloud of horses and men, I could see Branson's two henchmen directly in front of me.

"Get me there Boone!" I yelled for all to hear, "Get me there!"

Dust flew into my mouth and it began to choke me through; my eyes filtered the heavy brown dust, which seemed to throw itself back on us; still we were in a full gallop pursuit.

Boone pressed deeper into that wedge of this group till we found ourselves on the tail of Branson's most lagging rider.

"Closer," I commanded on Boone; he growled as his cold, dark eyes shot out in anger; his teeth exposed and appeared to nip on the horses' frantic heels.

"_Closer!_"

I reached out with an open hand, grabbed the horses' full wad of tail hair, yanked as hard as my pull would go; and so thrust that horse and rider into a roll and tumble that took both of them completely out of the race.

When all had come to a clear, I looked back to see the horse in a full stop and the rider kicking about the dust; appearing to be caught in a continual skip while taking doughnut circles around his horse.

His day for racing was over with.

Our convergence brought us to the very heart of this race once more; Branson's second henchman now just to my left. I edged Boone over when I saw Randall come laterally to me; now poking at the left corner of this very same rider.

"Take him!" I asked on Randall.

"Much obliged!" He bent low, smiled to his side on me, and he pushed his own horse to ride along that second rider.

"Let me have that rein!" Randall sternly groped for it.

"Says who?" The rider fussed and pushed about Randall, while I made my move to come undetected alongside of him.

"Says me!" I snatched his reins in a rush, "The Half-breed!"

That horse looked as if it had not only seen a ghost, but that a whole tribe of Indians had descended upon it without notice. The throws it went through; frightfully scared; bucking in a toss-spin, and then it kicking out with its hind legs until the rider finally fell into a rolled-up topple. As soon as the rider was tossed, the horse scampered about; leaving the rider to his own race home.

"You know what to do..." Randall winked on Boone and me.

"I must be off..." I shouted, "I have a race to win…"

"Woohooya..." Randall waved me on with a full smile.

Boone pressed between the wedge of three other riders; catch the draft, maneuver sidewise; there, to a certain point; take your stride more rapid and long, cut the distance, and shadow the opponent no further. This was the motto I had always known Boone to adhere to.

He simply would not be denied.

I felt the rumble of the earth as if I were in the very midst of a moving earthquake. I found myself thinking of the old Cherokee warrior races I imagined long ago; me, the young Cherokee new breed coming of age; amassing a run around the great mounds and circling back towards home. There waiting for me was my victory and the pride of everyone in my tribe. I was caught in a flashback of sorts; the memories were like a soft-lit candle; that when stirred into a smolder once more, I could still smell that aroma as though that candle had just been struck by a match.

The long waif of dust rose over the mighty landscape of this long and open range. The hooves of the most daring horses in our county rushed in a frantic manner and pace; the flagpoles awaiting us.

We passed through slopes and dipping valleys; gentle streams, bushwhacks, long-folding trees, and out amongst one platform was the throne of ten flagpoles, one each holding a particular color; mine being sky blue.

Branson was to reach first; caught first to my flag and wrangled it about his steed in a sign of protest; then pursuant to tossing it as far out as he could muster. I circled around the platform's rim only a matter of seconds later to find my holder empty; Branson now pulling his red-colored American flag from the opposite end.

"Can't win fair," I shouted, atop of Boone; while spinning about in a desperate search for my designated flag.

"Fair or no," he laughed, "I'll best anyone who dares cross me..."

And he shot away from that midpoint; driving south once more. Meanwhile the other riders had all clustered in a group to settle about and gather up their necessary cargo; I, still in dire need for assistance, must have appeared like a mad man derelict to any riding skills. Boone pushed left, then right, back over the ridge, up the galley, and down over the lowest edge.

"Randall!" I called back, "I can't find it!"

"There!" I heard his voice call back, "Bush cloves, down between the third and fourth bush. There! There!"

I saw him pointing persistently no more than a few yards from where I was spinning aimlessly about. The pole handle was settled up with the colored flag buried in the mist of those heavy foliage bushes.

I stumbled from Boone's mount; scattered legs, arms and all; half-crawling and half-walking in a rush to retrieve my flag.

"I can't make it," I swore out on Randall, who, to his own right, was waiting for me to start up again.

"Yes you can," he cried and struck to Boone's backside with a hefty blow, all in one motion.

Boone nearly went into a fit; snorting about, riling high and driving hard to the south. We were nearly twenty horse lengths to the groups' rear. This would be the greatest distance ever recovered in the history of the flag heat preliminaries. No one had ever won the race from such a disadvantage, and yet we had only half the race to make it up with; a tall order for a middle-aged horse, his young rider, and the strange forces of fate to be so fortuned with.

But Boone shot away like a star crossing the darkest night sky.

I had no mind to direct him further; he knew what to do.

He roared out with the speed of a cannon thrust; his shoulders stretching to their limits, driving hard to the earth, pushing with all his might, and extending his stride for as long as it would go. I felt his wings beginning to spread; his locks of mane flapping all through my face when I bent as low to the saddle as I could.

Every gallop forced him to grunt harder, gnaw and chew to his bit until I could see the markings of his teeth rivet through it. His back legs kicked high at their farthest stretch. Then, in one culminating moment, his four hooves landed directly underneath his body to push through the ground once more.

I kept my eyes steady to the head of us; six riders in all.

The more we gained ground, the more Boone pressed his frame to the extreme. Several of the riders looked back, shouted out that we were gaining on them, and so moved to block our path. By this time we were at the three-quarter's mark. I could see the faint distance of that crowd jumping and becoming rowdy to the shouts. The dirty mist of those directly in front of us proceeded to yield on the sounds of their collective hooves beating the ground.

That thundering sound, so cracking like a heart-stopping rumble when the hooves drove hard into the dry earth; and which only comes from the rides of so many; where we were all locked into a small but mobile space; and to hear the echoes of those just before us stirred Boone on. His ears pulled down; his dark coal eyes found their sights and pushed out more with that same determination.

Everything suddenly captivated itself in slow motion about us.

Boone and I were at normal speeds, or so it seemed, but all that which was around us appeared to slumber down onto a turtle's pace; one rider, two riders, three, four fell under our pace.

Two riders still remained before us; the American flag now arched high and flapping regal against my side. I held it firm with one hand; the other gripping Boone's rein with all the strength I could muster. Another rider fell behind me, and then all that remained was only Branson and myself.

He turned to his left, shocked as before, bent almost level-head to his horse, and whipped his black stallion to push hard on still. That mass of people appeared to jump and fall with every gallop we took; the earth, as well, looked to rise and tumble with the very rhythm of our ride.

I pulled half-a-length to the right of Branson and Shadowland. He raised his arm out to see me quickly gaining on him; his hand flying back in a brash attempt to grab onto my flag and pull it free.

I steered back away, made a dash level to his, and we were off for one final push. Rider to rider; horse to horse; all that separated us was a whisker on the neck, a nose push ahead; and Branson gave me one lasting stare before we both directed our attention to the finish line.

"Now, I'll have my say!" I yelled to Branson.

We locked eye contact with only two hundred yards to go, squared about, and headed for home. I sensed Boone slipping a neck ahead of Shadowland, keep his pace, and force the black stallion to finally yield.

We crossed in first.


	5. Journey Chapter 1 Episode 5

**Episode 5 – Branson And I Try To Settle Our Score**

The droves of cheers surrounded us as soon as we came to a halt. I pressed the flagpole sturdy in the ground; hands reaching about me to shake mine. I felt a young boy climb on board of Boone behind me. Boone bucked his head once, though I reached underneath him to wrap him in a hug and I felt the small welts rising along the rim of his neck.

I shot from off his saddle and I went across the way where Branson and Shadowland had settled directly opposite the finish line area. My eyes were full in steam as I pushed hastily through the crowd; sometimes down right rude in my mannerisms, as I pressed deeper into that hoard of people.

"And the winner in the second heat… Landon Hampshire on top of his horse Boone!"

I heard the announcer speak out as he was searching through his notepad to find our name associated with the number Boone wore.

Branson stared me down with a gripping, almighty evil look.

I, in turn, placed with him the identical favor.

Without warning, I reached up over several people, grabbed him by his shirt collar, and yanked him hard from his horse. Shadowland bucked high; kicking about with his front legs while those most near gave space for him and us to wrestle about that dry, desert dirt.

A few men interceded and pulled us forcibly apart; facing one another with that similar dislike.

"You about killed my horse Branson..." I cursed him with my stare and words.

"Good measure for a half-breed's horse," he muddled.

I lunged for him a second try, only to be held back by the strength of a dozen hands and arms.

"You took him to the edge!" I riled out in anger, "Your horse is sloppy-slow compared to mine... so you had to cheat to try and win! About near cut him through when your friends brandished those whips out there!"

"I did nothing of the sort..."

"Yes you did!" I pointed directly at him, "You put them up to it! This was no clean race…"

"You won," he smirked; throwing his arms out to his sides, "Only a half-breed cries foul when they win…"

Some chuckled at this further dig on me, though I pushed forward again, only to find myself being thrown back and flopping to the ground.

"Mark me, there's another race to be had…"

"We'll see..."

I came to my feet.

"Your horse isn't cultured enough to race on track," he went to his horse, cupped his hands underneath Shadowland's long angled neck, "This was an Indian's race…"

I spit about the ground directly in front of him and his horse.

"Like I said," I festered, "We'll see..."

"Care to wager?" He smartly proposed, "Your horse for mine? Oh let me see, I forgot, there is such a thing as an Indian giver. If I were to win Boone, you might request him back..."

His friends chuckled on this proposal, though I turned with one lasting sneer.

"You'll have to kill me first," I replied, "Boone will never go on a betting table."

"Shadowland is a mighty fine thoroughbred."

"No deal," I began to walk away.

"Would bring a great fetch in auction..."

"I said," stalling one last time, "No deal."

"Everyone has a price," I could feel his expression curl up into a smile behind me.

"I don't need the money," I continued with my step back towards Boone.

"Then I'll see you at the Harvester Festival race," he paused, "Oh, and do please be on time on that occasion… Would hate for your sun dial to make you late… and have you miss the joy of watching me take the grand prize."

I gazed with one last glare; Branson beginning to pull away while leading Shadowland out by the reins.

I suppose I compared Boone to Shadowland. The image of those two horses could not be more starkly different. Shadowland was the sleek form of a runner's horse; younger and more polished; tall and angled at all the right spots; a thoroughbred stance through and through. Meanwhile Boone was built for strength. His massive shoulders and oddly speckled coat gave him the image of a rash bully. His frame stood just above as high, but his legs appeared more squat-like and firm; like a grunt or an old goat about ready to tussle with the local farmer.

Though Boone's heart was what made him the pure breed and set him apart from all other mares. He would not be the lesser to be denied. It simply was not a part of his makeup, his stature, or his presence when I was in saddle and ride with him.


	6. Journey Chapter 1 Episode 6

**Episode 6 – Whittles Makes himself Known**

"Good race." Brianne smiled; standing beside Boone and holding him steady to his reins, "Dashing in every respect…"

"Think so?" I inquired with a turned-down look, "Kind of messy, dirty race if you ask me."

"What's it to matter what kind of race it was," she implied, "You won, nonetheless."

"No," I shook Brianne off, "It wasn't mine to win," I patted Boone down, cupped the dip in his reins, and brushed slightly back on his ears and top mane, "I don't have the legs to make up that kind of distance… This old horse was bred from more than just pure blood… He's got the breeder's spirit in him."

"Natural talent I should say," a gruff, worn, and tired voice intruded into our conversation. It seemed to mingle about, watch us from its own separate viewpoint, then trip into our talk at the right moment.

Brianne and I both gazed about, yet we could not find the man who spoke in on us.

"Over here."

We saw an old Negro man, white-beard and white hair in all, sitting on a stump, dirty-ragged, stymied without a shred of good clothes over him; knees popping through; a former white shirt now dirty brown from all the wears, cuffs torn free, and a black tarnished jacket looping over his broad shoulders. He never looked to spot us eye-to-eye, rather leaning forward almost in a squat, with a knife in one hand and a partially chiseled-out piece of wood in the other.

This kept his full preoccupation the whole while.

"Excuse me?" I squinted and strained to show more attention, though he never lifted his sights on me.

"Have you ever thought of riding cavalry?"

""You mean military? No, I haven't… I don't believe in the military," I flung the loose reins back over Boone.

"You don't believe in the military," he laughed, "or in taking orders."

He whittled another piece off of his woodcarving.

"Neither." I was quick on responding.

"Typical," he was just as hurried back.

"Excuse me?"

"White folk," he smiled, "They don't like to take orders… Guess it wasn't meant for their blood. But they sure do like to give'em."

I saw his white, pearly teeth shine through.

"What's your name?" Brianne softly asked.

"Ohh, there's no need," he said, "Really…"

"No," she moved closer, "Really… What is your name sir?"

"People around here call me Whittles," he shucked further on his stick, "I suppose in ancient times they used to call me James Alexander Irving… Seems too complicated and long, but Whittles will do," he paused, "Or that's what I have gotten used to."

"What brings you here?" I inquired.

"Same as you," he remarked, "To see a good race… Hope the right horse wins, and hope to see fire eyes one last time."

"Fire eyes..." I looked oddly on him.

Slowly he gathered to a stance, paused, collected his balance, peeled back the rustic and heavy eyebrows which brooded hard over his black eyes, and stepped slowly between us with his concentration squarely on Boone. Boone turned instinctively to face him, stand his ground, stomp about with his left hoof in a stammer, lower and buck his head, and then stand firm as the old man maneuvered right up to him; to look Boone hard in the eyes.

"Yesss..." Whittles grinned, "Fire Eyes."

"I dare say sir," I reacted, "You haven't seen this horse before today. I assure you."

"Oh yesss..." he paid me no mind, "You never forget the spirit in those eyes when you see it," Whittles turned my way; his face chocolate dark and coursed with aged wrinkles that ran all along the boundaries of his expression, "You can't beat Shadowland… Not like this… Not next time son."

"Sure we can," I insisted.

"Ever raced this horse in a rail track; close quarters, where split decisions decide winning or losing? It's not about speed so much as it is about strategy."

"Well no," I sounded off, "I haven't."

"Then the race is already decided before it is run," he grimaced and stared back over Boone with admiration. "You're racing experience son, not pure speed."

"Then, I shouldn't race..."

"Didn't say that," his chuckled, "The other horses' legs might fall off, and you would win by forfeit."

"No challenge in that..."

"Agreed," he shook his head on this, "In open range, there isn't a horse who can top this one. But on a circle track, it's a different story; very different story."

"You seem to be well versed on this."

"I've trained a few horses in my time," his touch soothed on Boone, and I could see the reflection in his eyes appear to simmer when that old man displayed such affection over him, "They become more than a horse over time; they become more like kin folk… They become settled in your blood like long-standing water on rock… After awhile, you just absorb them as your own."

"So what do you want out of this?"

"Memories," he stilled on Boone further, "Nothing more."

"Memories..." I repeated him curiously.

"To remember how it was," he whispered, "to breathe life into a champion… The spirit's there; just got to teach it how to fly."

"You rode in the cavalry..." I insinuated, "Civil War?"

"Yes," he responded, "Regiment rider 5th Cavalry… Worked with a horse breeder from Kentucky five years after the war; rode, cleaned stalls, and trained… I did it all."

"Why don't you Landon?" Brianne suggested.

Yet I took to my pause to think longer on it.

"Your call on it son," he spoke, "free of charge… You don't need to pay me anything if the purse strings persuade you."

"I think I can beat Shadowland..." I sturdied up.

"You won't..." he cackled back, "Ten times up; ten times down… every time."

"What makes you so sure?"

I studied him with a stark eye.

"Look at that horse," he requested; gazing back over Shadowland off in the distance, "Sleek, powerful, long muscles in the legs; firm shoulders; high chest breast…That, son, is a real genuine professional. You can kill him with speed in open range, but not on the circle track. Pace and strategy… Pace and strategy…"

"What do we do?" I was beginning to yield.

"First," he squatted; checking out the underling on Boone, "How bad you want to win this race?"

"Bad enough..." I returned.

"Doesn't tell me a darn thing son," he fussed, "How bad..."

He stood and shot me a grizzly, profuse stare that caught me completely off-guard.

"To prove a man is not born in the saddle… That it's not about me, but about Boone."

"Hogwash," he spat, "Don't give me terms son, on how to think what a man is… It's more brutish than that… This isn't a testimonial you can embellish to your grandkids someday… Come on boy… Be real with it."

"To show this wasn't mere chance we won."

"Shoot!" he waddled all around Boone in a fuss.

"What's his name?" He asked Brianne in frustration; all the while pointing the most crooked finger at me that I had ever seen.

"Landon..."

"Landon," he turned to me, "Dirty boy... Dirty."

"To rub Branson's nose in it," I sweated on this, "To beat him in everyway possible; he calls the terms, and I still win."

"Nose, feet, face," he flung his hands around wildly, "roll him in dirty dough while you're at it! So when that dog gets up he will always remember what happened. Make such a point he will squeal and yelp like a dog every time he sees you afterwards."

"You can get Boone to that point."

"Boone's already there," he claimed, "It's you that needs the fix'n."

He took a swipe of the bucket water close by.

"Horse gets out there with a no-nothing rider, he'll be swimming in circles; not racing… Gut-fish and paddle boats… A week, maybe two, then that Shadowland's best hope is for second."

"I like your confidence," I laughed, "And your bravado."

"No son," he sipped a drink once more, "Don't take me for what I am not… But what I am."

"And what are you?"

He drank further, chuckled, laughed through his gulp; causing the waters to bubble about his face. And when he came free of it, Brianne and I saw the broadest, most wet smile he could muster out at us, "Why they just call me Whittles… That will do just fine."

"Agreed…"

I held out my hand, took to shake his, and he so instructed me to have myself and Boone ready for training all the early morning two days from now, down by the Shore Lake track.

"We'll fix your gimp," he winked at us, as we parted ways.

I watched that old man disappear within the crowd, not taking back a second look on us; as if the ghost in him had trailed off onto some path we could not follow, only to re-appear in two days when the need arose for it.

I looked over Brianne and I saw the curtsey of a true woman budding from her flower base. Her hair was like long strings of pearls glittering in the shimmering sun; skin toasted dark and seemingly much the deeply embedded saddle-tan color as any other.

I often admired her smile when she made her expression gleam it so; those soft waves to her hair would cross over her face where the dimples would crease at each side of her cheeks.

If I were to imagine how an angel would laugh, it would be her stroke to that chuckle; soft, pleasant, with a tinge of seduction when it rolled from her voice and out into the open air. People would constantly turn to look over her way when she bolstered a laugh or two.

"We should celebrate..." she brought me back.

"You have any misgivings towards going back to the house? Dinner? Roast out nuts with a spice sprinkled over them." I questioned as we strolled about; towing Boone behind us.

"Not at all," she grinned enough to where her dimples cut heavy into her jaws, "Sure your parents won't mind?"

"I'm sure they'll think it good pot luck to have you along for dinner," I responded, "Father is always delayed with his work… It's a matter of tradition with him… Mother is quite fond of you; makes good conversation when you are around."

"I should like that very much then," she giggled out, "We will need to stop by my home along the way; let my mother know our general whereabouts…"

And with this we were off.


	7. Journey Chapter 1 Episode 7

**Episode 7 – My Thoughts of Brianne/What Was Left Behind**

A slow, meandering sort of pace that brought us along all the stray roads we could find in our journey back. The day passed along in its own good time; much like the day before, and the day before this. The evening began its long casting shadows from early evening until the eventual dusk set in.

I cherished my moments with Brianne, and I found a certain level of tension between us. The long stroll home did us measureable good to stretch out our conversation for as long as we could. We did better not to dispel many 'honesty's' which kept us more frozen not to discuss certain issues than to be the more blunt about them. It made our relations that much more convenient.

Still, as we passed along those roads, I could sense in her voice and see through the viewpoint of her own gazing expression, she was slowly terminal with some thoughts which kept her in the dark on the man I truly am. You could see when these thoughts came to the forefront of her mind; the quiet nature that overhung on her, the solemn disposition that brought her to a loss of words; the times when her growing personality would retreat within her.

Mind you, she never at once wavered to announce herself clearly; and even more so impose upon me some relevant will of hers, that she may possess about wanting to know more than she already understood between us.

So we held to our truce as we always did. This very often would cause gaps of silence during some of the moments we shared together.

And as always, she forgave me for this.

She wanted more, but patiently, and quite willingly she waited, for the time, for the place, for the combination of both when I would announce such a gift I was giving to her.

I believe her hope had me embedded into her future. That somehow, no matter the obstacles that 'walled' us from each other, we would be together and free to love and share the way she had always dreamed we would be towards one another.

But still I was the mystery here; to her, to my family, and even to myself. This land of self-discovery called 'life' was keeping me at such odds with myself. Brianne was standing at my door; waiting, wanting, hoping, and even dreaming of the day when I would allow her to enter my world.

Even then, my memory of Annabelle haunted me to remember and to reflect what we once shared within the days and times of our youth.

The youth I still long for…


	8. Journey - Chapter 2 - Episode 1

_**Chapter 2**_

**My Spirit Wanders In The Eve.**

**Episode 1 – The Abiding Home**

The dinnerware was set to fine china, the crystal glasses glowed to sparkle under the low lamps of a chandelier. The silverware was heated and kept warm until time for supper. My sisters were about in their rooms; Alicia reading profusely a new novel which was to her custom every evening just before dinner. I felt she was trying to fatten herself with words, and then pigeon pick her food when it was time to actually eat. Erin had grown to be a spry and spirited young woman; as much as she was in childhood, only worse.

Alicia and I remained to our loyalties with one another. We confided between each other regularly, held to our promises, and locked away what secrets we cared to not share with anyone else. To me, her trust was golden. A turncoat for a feminine woman now; her bright eyes, gleaming smile, veracity to laugh and kick about glee had always made her a favorite amongst the nearby beaus. Her prudent and picky nature by which she would date and date regularly, kept any perspective suitor from getting too close to her.

Erin was truly the tomboyish gender of the lot. From cow roping, to working the mares, colts, and studs, Erin had a way with the outdoors. It was if she were born into the outdoors, undomesticated; and so having the better skills of any cowboy I could yet imagine. I could outride her but little else; and how she had the virtuoso of any gun shooter near and far. Three years in a row she was the best shot at the fair in her age group.

Now mother had aged with as much grace as with wisdom. She stood to be the backbone to our family, with father gone on business travels and more elevated responsibility. We had seen little of him over the past several years. And through these lonelier years, mother held to her own, kept attention to her growing children, and made our home the best situation for us all. I never saw her rock fade; sturdy, strong, unyielding to any of the pressures, but keeping to her stance through even the strongest of winds.

Her life, to all ends, was dedicated to us.

The house was in a warm glow for early supper. The overcast haze of sunset dipped just behind the highest arch to our home. Brianne and I could see the feathering clouds drift along the cascading rays and sun. The dips were like a harbor into the coming seas of night. Like a mantle; a dream where one might stall to admire on before awaking. The shadows of light held to each windowpane; the flickers and walking silhouettes filled the house with such activity that we knew nightfall would be setting in soon.


	9. Journey - Chapter 2 - Episode 2

**Episode 2 – A Mother's Wisdom**

"How nice of you to join us Brianne," mother greeted us both when we entered through the front door, as was always to her custom. I could see the gray overshadowing her once raven hair.

"And to you, Mrs. Hampshire…" Brianne gladly accepted mother's embrace. The dining room was all now aglow.

"Can you grab your sister, Erin..." mother requested of her, "And Landon," she directed her look to me, "please do pardon us Brianne," mother shifted her look back and forth, "Landon..." She held out her hand to under lock my arm and guide me away to the grand wooden porch sitting on the back of our home.

"What do you make of Brianne?" She asked of me as we caught the sunset together; it drifting behind the large, overhanging trees close to our house.

"She is a fine girl," I suggested this.

"Not the mere pride of a man who might reciprocate the emotions and feelings she feels for you," she crossed her hands in front of her waist, leaned back over the railing, and disappeared her expression into the twilight, "and she does feel much for you Landon."

I paused for a time to respond with.

"I can feel it, as well."

"Still," she sighed, "You do nothing..."

"Am I to do something?" I questioned.

"I think that choice lies with you," she softly spoke, "But to do nothing still means to choose."

"Perhaps," I paced out to the edge with her.

"When do you plan to make a life for yourself son?"

"Am I too old to still wonder about such things?" I pondered with a question on her verbal curiosities.

She smiled.

"The verse of a mother is to always know," she grinned deeper, "and if not to know, but always to be curious about instead… Such is a mother's love for her son."

"I won't consider it a transgression just quite yet," I laughed, "that I still don't have the foggiest clue of who I am."

"Oh Landon," mother touched me on my shoulder, "We have to try to find ourselves before we figure it out… It's a leap of faith into some level of a journey. A journey we sometimes just have to go into before fully knowing," she paused for a spell, "and figure out along the way… We can't always be so safe in life."

"So you think I should leave?"

I gulped hard on this, and it surely pronounced itself through my revealing expression on her.

"Oh no son," she waned on this, "you could be a fingertip away from finding yourself, or you might have to go to the farthest places of the earth to find that same answer," she nearly cried, "only the bird knows when it is time to fly…"

"I can't speak on what I'm unsure of."

"And you are unsure of Brianne," mother implied, as she moved to brush back the shoulder-length, long, thick black hair waving at the side of my look.

"She is a fine girl," I whispered, to repeat.

"You know," she converted another subject, "you received another letter last week."

I could sense the stern breech in her eyes when they took to glow much like the setting sun.

"I don't want to go there," I clinched my jaws firmly shut.

"All those letters," she calmly continued, "unopened, unanswered, and unread… They are waiting for you Landon."

"That was another day," I leaned about, and I glared into the sun and its diminishing light, "Another time in my life."

"Don't lie to yourself..."

"I am farthest from that," I shot back.

"Or maybe too close to see it for what it is."

Mother was just as quick to have me rethink myself.

"You know I made a promise never to try to persuade you children to do something before you are ready to do it… Unless, that is, I felt compelled to do so."

"And you feel that urgency with me?" I pondered.

She alone, in her sweet, melancholy manner, said nothing; yet only to shake her head on it with an agreeing wave.

"Because son," she began after her pause, "the undeniable mistake lies in not seeing the urgency to it, and letting it all slip away before you give yourself a chance, a hope, to act upon it."

"What to do," I seemed to speak to myself more than mother, "What to do… That seems to be the eternal question."

"Not exactly," she looked away, "just when to look for the answer. To know the time, the place, when the answer is finally there for you to see it for what it is."

"I feel like I can't go back," I spoke as though I were in a brief, internal turmoil with myself, "Nor do I feel I can go forward either."

"Then the answer lies somewhere in between..."

She applied a kiss to my forehead, and I accepted it with love and grace.

"Perhaps someday you will value something that you see as the greatest thing in your life, that you now find the least value in… Just don't be the victim in the decisions you make…"

"Mom!" we heard a shout inside the house. It was the raspy voice of Erin protruding out, "Supper's a-brewing."

"Shall we?" Mother wrapped her arm underneath mine once more, and I led her back into the dining room where Brianne was patiently awaiting our return. I turned to her with a sense of new vigor to smile and to express on her a new measure of affection.

About the midst of dinner, mother came with her announcement about father.


	10. Journey - Chapter 2 - Episode 3

**Episode 2 – A Mother's Wisdom**

"How nice of you to join us Brianne," mother greeted us both when we entered through the front door, as was always to her custom. I could see the gray overshadowing her once raven hair.

"And to you, Mrs. Hampshire…" Brianne gladly accepted mother's embrace. The dining room was all now aglow.

"Can you grab your sister, Erin..." mother requested of her, "And Landon," she directed her look to me, "please do pardon us Brianne," mother shifted her look back and forth, "Landon..." She held out her hand to under lock my arm and guide me away to the grand wooden porch sitting on the back of our home.

"What do you make of Brianne?" She asked of me as we caught the sunset together; it drifting behind the large, overhanging trees close to our house.

"She is a fine girl," I suggested this.

"Not the mere pride of a man who might reciprocate the emotions and feelings she feels for you," she crossed her hands in front of her waist, leaned back over the railing, and disappeared her expression into the twilight, "and she does feel much for you Landon."

I paused for a time to respond with.

"I can feel it, as well."

"Still," she sighed, "You do nothing..."

"Am I to do something?" I questioned.

"I think that choice lies with you," she softly spoke, "But to do nothing still means to choose."

"Perhaps," I paced out to the edge with her.

"When do you plan to make a life for yourself son?"

"Am I too old to still wonder about such things?" I pondered with a question on her verbal curiosities.

She smiled.

"The verse of a mother is to always know," she grinned deeper, "and if not to know, but always to be curious about instead… Such is a mother's love for her son."

"I won't consider it a transgression just quite yet," I laughed, "that I still don't have the foggiest clue of who I am."

"Oh Landon," mother touched me on my shoulder, "We have to try to find ourselves before we figure it out… It's a leap of faith into some level of a journey. A journey we sometimes just have to go into before fully knowing," she paused for a spell, "and figure out along the way… We can't always be so safe in life."

"So you think I should leave?"

I gulped hard on this, and it surely pronounced itself through my revealing expression on her.

"Oh no son," she waned on this, "you could be a fingertip away from finding yourself, or you might have to go to the farthest places of the earth to find that same answer," she nearly cried, "only the bird knows when it is time to fly…"

"I can't speak on what I'm unsure of."

"And you are unsure of Brianne," mother implied, as she moved to brush back the shoulder-length, long, thick black hair waving at the side of my look.

"She is a fine girl," I whispered, to repeat.

"You know," she converted another subject, "you received another letter last week."

I could sense the stern breech in her eyes when they took to glow much like the setting sun.

"I don't want to go there," I clinched my jaws firmly shut.

"All those letters," she calmly continued, "unopened, unanswered, and unread… They are waiting for you Landon."

"That was another day," I leaned about, and I glared into the sun and its diminishing light, "Another time in my life."

"Don't lie to yourself..."

"I am farthest from that," I shot back.

"Or maybe too close to see it for what it is."

Mother was just as quick to have me rethink myself.

"You know I made a promise never to try to persuade you children to do something before you are ready to do it… Unless, that is, I felt compelled to do so."

"And you feel that urgency with me?" I pondered.

She alone, in her sweet, melancholy manner, said nothing; yet only to shake her head on it with an agreeing wave.

"Because son," she began after her pause, "the undeniable mistake lies in not seeing the urgency to it, and letting it all slip away before you give yourself a chance, a hope, to act upon it."

"What to do," I seemed to speak to myself more than mother, "What to do… That seems to be the eternal question."

"Not exactly," she looked away, "just when to look for the answer. To know the time, the place, when the answer is finally there for you to see it for what it is."

"I feel like I can't go back," I spoke as though I were in a brief, internal turmoil with myself, "Nor do I feel I can go forward either."

"Then the answer lies somewhere in between..."

She applied a kiss to my forehead, and I accepted it with love and grace.

"Perhaps someday you will value something that you see as the greatest thing in your life, that you now find the least value in… Just don't be the victim in the decisions you make…"

"Mom!" we heard a shout inside the house. It was the raspy voice of Erin protruding out, "Supper's a-brewing."

"Shall we?" Mother wrapped her arm underneath mine once more, and I led her back into the dining room where Brianne was patiently awaiting our return. I turned to her with a sense of new vigor to smile and to express on her a new measure of affection.

About the midst of dinner, mother came with her announcement about father.


End file.
